


Short Fuse

by bosmath



Series: Full of Wolves Universe [2]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - GTA, Backstory, Canon-Typical Violence, Criminal AU, Explicit Language, Fake AH Crew, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 00:58:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2793926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bosmath/pseuds/bosmath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s been raising hell since he was eighteen, selling homemade explosives and alcohol out of his backpack at school. Michael got his start early. He was kicked out of his house at seventeen, took some jobs as a handyman, but he never shook his wild child tendencies. He lived on the street for a while, getting by on selling illegal explosives. He rarely got involved in their use, as much as he itched for it. That was until he was convinced to do some dirty work for a guy. Never was there ever such a thrill, such a vigor in his veins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Short Fuse

**Author's Note:**

> This is a series of short (typically 1-3k word) back story / origin story for Michael in the FoW Universe. Spoilers for the main story ahoy!

**CAMDEN, NEW JERSEY (2005)**

“Just slip in, install the ignition bomb, and get out of there.”  


Michael looks down at the explosive in his hands, unsure. He had used plenty of explosives before, sure. But he had never used them on people. He never considered actually blowing people up.  


It’s 2005, and Michael Jones is eighteen years old in the city of Camden, New Jersey. He sells explosives, drugs, some weapons-- anything he could turn a profit on. He lived in a shitty apartment. The rent was decent, and the landlord asked no questions. He could always use the money, but he wasn’t a violent man. Not like he was being asked to do, anyway.  


His hesitant gaze meanders back up to the man’s face-- all scars and wrinkles. He was a frequent customer to Michael’s back alley dealings. But he’d never asked for anything more. Not like this. “I-- why?” His accent was still raw and thick with Jersey influence.  


“I don’t pay you to ask questions, son. You need the money. I know you do. So take the money and do what you wanna do with that explosive,” the man gets closer and Michael can smell the pungent reek of alcohol on his breath. He shuffles backward until his back meets the cold brick wall. “You do this, for me. Do this for me. Com--”  


“Lay off,” Michael barks, but there is little bite behind it. “You’re drunk, old man. Go home.”  


This seems only to frustrate the man. “You’ll do it, or I’ll call the cops on your little bomb stand, here, I’ll--”  


“Yeah, like they’ll believe an old alcoholic with a lengthy criminal record,” remarks a teenage Michael. This seems to get to the guy, who backs up slightly.  


“You keep it. Keep the money, too. Think about it.” The grungy old man slinks away into the fading light of Camden. Michael watches him go, glad to see him leave. He looks back down at the IED in his hand, his thoughts wrestling for a moment. His other hand produces the money the man gave him: one thousand dollars. He definitely needed it. But this much?  


Was that all it took?

An hour has passed, and Michael finds himself crammed uncomfortably in a man’s garage. In the low light, he fiddles with wires, devices, car parts on the underside of the vehicle. It’s a nice car-- some sporty black thing-- but Michael was definitely fucking it up something fierce. He doesn’t know a lot about cars. He definitely could not put this piece of shit back together, but he could definitely make it blow up. He’d be a thousand dollars richer, and he’d worry about any guilt later.  


His hands are cold, his fingers moving in slow, cramped motions. The chill of the cement floor has sunken into his body. He rubs his hands together and blows warm breath on them, but this only brings temporary relief. Michael wishes quietly that he’d brought gloves. He’s nowhere near done when a light clicks on in the garage. Fuck.  


His hands freeze in place, and he presses himself closer to the cold cement ground. Michael’s breath catches in his throat as black shoes make their way across the garage floor before stopping inches from his head. He thought the owner wasn’t home. He swallows his fear and makes believe that he doesn’t need air. The door to the car clicks open, and the feet disappear inside. There’s a beat, and Michael personally curses every God he can think of. Laying directly beneath his bomb was not where he was planning to be. He wasn’t sure what it would do.It wasn’t done.  


The crawls hurriedly backwards, but there’s nowhere to go His feet hit the back wall and there just isn’t time. The engine turns over, and there’s a definite spark. A slight puff of smoke and a loud crack sound feet from Michael’s head. Fuck! His ears ring, and he almost misses the car door opening again as the engine dies. Fuck, fuck. Suddenly, there’s eyes looking straight back at him. Bright blue eyes. Angry, blue eyes.  


Michael shirks back beneath the car like a trapped animal, wishing instead that his explosion had worked. It was a better fate than jail time. Or getting beaten to death. There was no way he could explain his way out of this one. His fingernails scrabble for purchase on the cement as strong hands tear Michael from his hiding place.  


He’s held up by the collar of his hoodie and roughly thrown against the wall. Tools rattle and fall from their places, clattering to the floor loudly around their feet. A fiery pain sprouts in his back. All Michael can hear is his own blood rushing in his ears. The man’s face is twisted in a horrific frown, but he does not hit Michael like he expects. “What are you doing here?” Michael strains, but can’t make out the words well. The man repeats himself louder.  


The teenager struggles against the older man’s powerful grip to no avail. “I was… hired to put that in your car.”  


“Put what in my car? Cherry bombs?” The man seems almost amused and his grip loosens, but not enough for Michael to escape. His eyes bore into the intruder’s, unwavering. Michael looks back at him: unruly dirty blonde hair, pale blue eyes, and a strong jawline. “Who are you?”  


Michael weighs his odds at getting away with a fake name, but decides against it. He might as well die somewhat honestly despite living anything but. “Michael Jones,” he sputters, his head spinning. The man sets him down, and Michael realizes their height difference. He shrinks under the tower, coming only to the other’s chin. “And it wasn’t a cherry bomb,” he adds indignantly. “I wasn’t finished.”  


“Forgive me. Not cherry bombs, then,” the man shrugs but keeps his hardened look. “Well, you’ve only succeeded in ruining my car. I almost mistook it for an engine problem. You didn’t quite blow the roof off the place, did you?”  


Michael grumbles, but doesn’t say anything. He crosses his arms defensively, and tries not to look the man in the eye. Fear and adrenaline had filled his system, and he was trying not to visibly shake under the scrutiny. Maybe he’d just let him leave alive. But that was wishful thinking. His target stays silent for a second before speaking. “I’ve got a proposition for you.”  


The teenager’s eyes widen in surprise, but he tries to play it off. “What kind of proposition?” It was never a good sign. God damn it. Why did he agree to blow this dude’s car up? Like the drunk old man would remember where he left his thousand dollars anyway.  


“Instead of planting second-rate firecrackers in cars, how would you like to have some real fun?” The man’s behavior seemed to change in a blink. He looked almost excited now. His eyes, however, remained hard and calculating. He was a special kind of terrifying.  


Michael didn’t like the sound of it, but he didn’t want to know what would happen to him if he said no. A second look around the garage brought some awful things to his attention. Like the array of knives, guns, and what looked to be torture equipment that lined the walls. Who the fuck was he told to take out? “Uh, not to sound ungrateful or anything,“ he ventures. “But don’t you want to, like, gut me for what I did to your car?”  


“Well, yes. But I assume you’d like to leave my garage with all your organs intact.” His smile is grim and unwelcoming, but he offers a hand to shake. Michael takes it reluctantly. His grip is powerful and makes Michael’s hand feel small. “Make it up to me, and I won’t have to confiscate any of your innards. I’m Ryan Haywood.”  


“It’s not a pleasure at all,” Michael says uncertainly.  


“That’s the spirit,” Ryan smiles.  


It was the start of an uncomfortable partnership that would span the next three years.


End file.
